


The Dreams of My Children, The Secrets of My Heart

by Saku777



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Human Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 02:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13695138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saku777/pseuds/Saku777
Summary: A drabble for aph belarus week, with the theme being immortality/secrets. Belarus speaks with a young man, one of her own, filled with love and dreams for her and her people. She has none left of the latter for herself whatsoever.





	The Dreams of My Children, The Secrets of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> There references to historical events and current Belarusian politics. Alexander Lukashenko is the current president of Belarus and has been so since 1995. The opposition mentioned here is the BPF or Belarusian Popular Front, they do not seem to have a large amount of support in Belarus and are viewed with suspicion.

"What’s it like, being immortal?” The poet asked Belarus. “You want to know all my fucking secrets,” she sniffed. “Well you won’t, but I shall indulge that request given it’s one of the most basic fucking questions ever.” 

If he had asked something else; what do you think of Stalin, was communism truly a good idea, what do you truly think of your boss, what are your feelings towards your brother, your sister, and that green-eyed nation next door, she might of refused. Belarus after all had many secrets, some were even secret to herself.

Those were the things lying burred in the most secret chambers of her heart and soul. They were things burred deep and dark by her long ago, or present but unnoticed and ignored. Some of those questions however were in the poet’s mind and weighing very heavily on them, but now was not the time to ask. There was something feral about her, like a wild animal even with all her beauty, and so he felt he had to play his cards carefully with such a wary being.

“It is how it is,” she said simply. “I know no other life so I don’t have a damn thing to compare it to. However, I have seen hundreds of years and ages pass. I have seen men come and go, death and life, joy and sorrow, and yet the world keeps turning as it always has. I’ve seen humans commit numerous stupidities and make the same countless mistakes over and over and over. What I want most now is peace, security, and stability, nothing else.”

The poet was disappointed in her resignation but unsurprised. He did his best not to let that show. “Would you rather live a human life then? Do you want to be a mother or a wife or have a normal family.” She arched one eyebrow, but otherwise her expression was impenetrable. Belarus loved children yes, but only her own Belarusian children because they were a part of her and her very being. She had few other maternal instincts, though perhaps her affection towards animals might count. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” she said. “I have a family, we’re tied together by bonds stronger than blood, and my people are my children. I desire nothing else as long as they’re good and can live peaceful lives with enough to eat and safety. Speaking of that-” she paused and picked up the poet’s fork, putting his blini in his mouth and surprising the poor man. “Eat! You mustn’t forget, it’s important and good for you.”

He stared at her and began to chew, nodding hesitantly. In that very odd moment this young looking thing had reminded him of his little old grandmother. He swallowed, took a sip of his tea, and then asked. “I do have a few more things I wish to find out from you Miss Belarus. “You’re a human, call me Miss Arlovskya, we’re not familiar enough for anything else yet, but ask away.” She reached over once more and wiped away some food from his mouth and he awkwardly permitted it. “Ah, yes well…you look so young, just how old are you? And how long will you even live?” She scoffed and said, “I’m a young girl in looks but my heart, soul, and existence are far far older. Don’t let you fucking eyes trick you. I’m older than your mother…more than a thousand years old actually and as for how long I’ll live I don’t fucking know. All I know is that one day I’ll die, like all things. I suppose in that case I’m not truly immortal, perhaps one day I’ll die soon as well. A devil or a kikimora pop up in my dreams every so often telling me so. In that case however, and even if the devil is being a liar, I go to the same place as everyone else, death. I’m neither sad nor happy about it, death is merely a natrual part of life. Though…I should like my people to prosper.”

The poet was glad at these words at least, and heard, or at least he hoped he heard, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “I’m not one of those assholes who complain about their long life over and over and actively wants to die. If it comes, it comes, but as miserable as living is it is also quite precocious, because it’s fleeting. All fleeting things are precious, like the dew that fades in the morning sun, or flowers that only grow in spring time. I treasure each moment of my life because once lived ,it is past and never to be seen again. There’s no point looking backwards,” she said, staring off into the distance.

Belarus tried to deny it to herself but in her last words there was sadness, in them and in her heart. Sadness for things lost, sadness for things pushed away, sadness for things she denied herself, and denied to her. She refused to muse on it though, that lead to a dangerous path and she would not be weak or pliant to her feelings. The poet meanwhile wanted to ask of many other things, he wished to talk more to this strange being that was his nation. However another part of him was not so sure, some of the things he wanted to ask were rather controversial.

He wanted to know her feelings towards Stalin, Lukashenko, what she thought of the opposition, and of Russia and Ukraine, but he was unsure if it would be wise to even mention such things. He decided to test the theory out with one long dead and if things went badly he would quickly change the subject. “What about Stalin? What did you think of-” There was a loud sneeze from Belarus and she stuffed more blini into the poet’s mouth. “You’re still not eating enough! If you don’t I’ll be pissed off, what a waste of money and food. You can’t be like that, it must be because you’re a writer. We get so caught up in our own heads, don’t we?”

This time, the poet was distracted, “You’re a writer?” She nodded, “I write poems and short stories at times. I’ve been doing so for years.” Stalin was lost in the wind, but that was what she wanted. She didn’t want to answer that question and moreover she felt like she would be unable to. She knew if she tried the words would get stuck in her throat and nothing would come out. It was if there was a block from some force or even herself prohibiting her from saying much of anything. She didn’t think about it much though, it was useless to.

Belarus had many secrets, some she couldn’t even confront herself. They were memories, thoughts, feelings, things left in the dark recesses of her mind where even she couldn’t access them and bring them out. Shoved there hastily and covered with dust and cobwebs, locked up and padded shut for no one to see. The meal continued and the poet asked no more of politics, for Belarus guided things away from that. Such things did not exist in Belarus after all.


End file.
